


The Eye-Opening Adventure

by Avice



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Friends to Lovers, Hand Jobs, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Male Homosexuality, Oral Sex, Sex, Sexual Identity, Sexual Tension, Slash, Virgin Sherlock, Virgin!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-12
Updated: 2012-07-12
Packaged: 2017-11-09 20:36:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/458115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avice/pseuds/Avice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A surprising touch makes John question his sexual identity and Sherlock rethink his attitude towards love and attraction. They both need to make some adjustments and learn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It was a puzzling case. Sherlock was enjoying himself. He had been thinking about the foot print, the phone call, the look on the husband's face. Rearranging and studying the pieces in his mind, comparing them to the thousands of other details, seeing what fit where. Fascinating. Every now and then he caught a glimpse of John at the edge of his vision. He was reading, going out, coming in, writing his blog. Occasionally Sherlock made a remark, or explained a point he was weighing. John answered, or didn’t. 

"Aha!" Finally he saw it. He jumped up, grabbed his coat. The pieces were in order. They would need to take a look at that flower pot on the back step.   
"Let's go, John!" But John was out. What had he said? Pub? No, it was barely afternoon. Groceries? Possibly. Sherlock didn't keep track of the contents of their cupboards. A walk? Maybe. It was a lovely day. What did it matter, John’s whereabouts were of no consequence. Sherlock hurried out.

It was just as he had deduced. There was a tiny spec of something dark at the bottom of the pot and another one on the stone paving in the middle of the yard. Blood. He texted Lestrade. "Brother-in-law. Forensics for the flower pot and its previous location (middle of the yard). SH" 

The case had been fun. Besides having been mentally invigorating, he had managed to gather more material for his footprint study: the brother-in-law had a stiff neck on his right side, the result of a desk job, which could be seen in the impression of his step. Excellent. It confirmed Sherlock's hypothesis. There remained only the question of tenosynovitis’ exact effect. He had inconclusive, partially contradicting samples of that. All depended of course on the affected joint… 

\---

Sherlock came home to find John dozed off on the sofa after a shower, his dressing gown half-open. As John didn't usually appear in any state of undress around the flat, he had to be knackered; and not expecting Sherlock back yet. It must have been last night they had been chased after in north of London. The night before there had of course been the robbery. No wonder the man was tired.

John’s bare chest rose in a calm, even rhythm. He was so vulnerable, unprotected as he lay there. It felt a violation even to look at him. Sherlock was surprised to notice in himself a sudden urge to caress John’s hair. He shrugged it off and went to put the kettle on instead. 

The sound of water coming to boil woke John up. He pulled the gown tighter around himself, curled more comfortably against the cushions.   
"Make me a cuppa too, will you?" His voice filled with slumber.  
Sherlock took his time. Miraculously even found a clean cup. Let the pot brew before filling two mugs. Milk and sugar for John.

As he took them over, John didn’t get up, but made just enough room for Sherlock to squeeze in. He sat down, John sleepily snuggling his head against Sherlock. Without warning all the nerve endings on Sherlock’s thigh, where John’s head touched, heated up – as if that was the only place on his body that could feel, and absolutely had to feel. The unexpected, violently intense sensation made Sherlock shiver involuntarily and almost drop the steaming mugs. 

Although half-asleep and not known for his powers of observation, even John couldn’t miss the reaction. It set his pulse raising. He suddenly felt his scalp as if on fire against Sherlock. He froze, unable to move, and wide awake now. He could feel Sherlock nervous and, yes, excited, too. John focused on the touch between the top of his head and Sherlock's leg. Trying to touch more, trying to understand more. But there’s only so much scalp and hair can do. Sherlock would be bound to notice his state. Yet he continued to keep his eyes closed and feigned sleep. No, that wouldn't fool anybody. Least of all Sherlock. Almost an insult to pretend it would. 

John sat up yawning in attempt at nonchalance. He took the cup Sherlock was offering. Their hands brushed, setting off another trickle of fireworks on their skins. He didn’t dare look at Sherlock, sure he was already betraying too much. What was it exactly? He didn’t know, but Sherlock would. Whatever it was, he knew he wasn’t ready for it. John cleared his throat.  
"Cracked it, did you?"

For once Sherlock needed a minute to catch up, distracted by the warmth still lingering on his thigh.  
"Yes. Yes, I did. 'Twas the brother-in-law. Lestrade'll do the actual catching, I imagine."  
John whistled quietly.  
"So it was the old man's business the murderer was after. Well, well."  
John's chatter was forced. Sherlock got up, only realising as he sat down opposite, that he had moved to get a better look at John. He needed to study John. The man actually seemed to blush under his gaze. 

There were thin, pale hairs on his chest. Sherlock caught himself wondering whether they went all the way down or if there was bare skin somewhere before the pubic hairs curled upwards. Interesting. He was actually physically attracted. Very much so. The imprint of John’s head still as if burning on his thigh. That, of course, was impossible as the contact was long gone. Definitely, he wanted John. He wasn’t sure what that even entailed.

John felt exposed, naked under Sherlock’s scrutiny. But instead of tugging the dressing gown more firmly around himself, he let it hang loose, even opening it a bit more while lifting the mug to his lips. What on earth was he doing? Was he actually flirting with Sherlock? His cheeks were flushed. Shit. Calm down. You’re not fifteen anymore, and he isn’t Mary from next door.

“Glad that’s solved now. There are a couple of comments on the blog that might turn out to be interesting.” Sherlock couldn’t care less about cases now. Here was a question much more acute and intriguing. 

They could hear the front door open. Muffled noises downstairs followed by familiar footsteps. Lestrade. John got up as if stung. He felt suddenly coming to his senses and dashed upstairs to get dressed.

“Hello, hello,” Lestrade greeted cheerfully as he entered without knocking. Something was off. Sherlock seemed even weirder than usual, if that was possible. Staring in front of himself with a look of surprise on his face. Odd. Well, the chap was not normal. 

“Thanks for the message, old boy. Definitely looks like blood. We’ll have to wait for the test results of course, but if I understood anything about your bouncing about the other day, it would seem to fit your theory.”  
Bouncing about indeed. Sherlock snorted and turned to Lestrade.  
“Right,” Lestrade felt uncommonly nervous under his stare, “just came to remind you to pop over at the station tomorrow, so we’ll get the papers in order.” He knew that, that wasn’t going to happen just by telling Sherlock. “Where’s John?”

John, fully clothed, came in.  
“Talk of the devil, there you are. Just reminding Sherlock of his civic duties in this case. You’ll come over tomorrow?”   
“Yes, yes. Sure.” John was left standing awkwardly in the middle of the room. He had been heading for the sofa, but something had made him stop. For Pete’s sake. A man has the right to sit on his own damn sofa. He proceeded to do so. Sherlock glimpsed him briefly, but thankfully focused on Lestrade after that.

There was something wrong with John too. He’d taken his most tense and rigid military pose on his own sofa. Boy, the air was thick with something, that much could Lestrade tell. 

Those two made one strange couple. Not that Lestrade believed the gossip. He was rather sure John was straight and, in any case, Sherlock was only interested in his work. But something was going on here. Well, maybe John had refused to cook dinner. He almost chuckled aloud at his own wit. 

“We’ll be there. Anything else?” Sherlock inquired eager to get rid of Lestrade. As the DI shook his head and turned to leave, John jumped up. He clearly couldn’t just sit still tonight. Sherlock was frustrated.  
“How ‘bout a pint round the corner? I’m buying,” John offered. Sherlock almost growled with annoyance. He wanted to observe John. He needed to get data. The hurry with which John disappeared through the door told him that maybe for once John had actually been following his train of thought.


	2. Chapter 2

The key didn’t fit the lock. John fumbled until a stroke of luck pushed the door open. He was wasted. After three pints he had texted everyone he knew and made Greg do the same, until they were a large, rowdy group shouting, drinking, and telling each other what great guys they were. He had organised the shindig to make sure he wouldn’t have to be alone with his thoughts for one second. It had worked. In a manner of speaking. 

The events of the evening were a bit of a blur by now (great!), but a disturbing, powerful wish was stomping around (not so great). He hoped that Sherlock would have kissed him. Or that he would have kissed Sherlock. He kept changing his mind about who should’ve leaned in first. Kissing Sherlock. Dear god. It must be the tipple. Maybe he just hadn’t had enough. That could be the problem.

He tried to step gingerly up the stairs. They were tricky. Usually they weren’t this crooked. Blasted luck that they had a malfunction tonight of all nights. He gave up and helped with his hands. Aware of the noise he peeped: “Sorry, Mrs. Hudson,” unsure whether he was actually whispering or shouting. The latter probably. No matter. The important thing now was to focus on the steps. Ah, finally. The landing. One more floor to go.

Sherlock listened to John’s agonising ascent. At long last there was a loud thud upstairs. He got up, hopped the stairs two at a time. John was lying face down on the floor snoring. He had almost made the bed, only a few inches short. Sherlock stared at him for a minute. He was disappointed. The first hint of homoerotism and John had to get himself wrecked. Not good. 

Well, John would just have to get over it. No doubt he would. Sighing Sherlock took off John’s shoes and jacket and hoisted him on the bed. Undeterred by the reek and the rumpus, he couldn’t help but gently caress John’s cheek. It confirmed the conclusions he had reached that night about his own feelings: he was in love with John. Very peculiar. But it felt very good. 

He had reflected on their relationship for the length of their acquaintance. His initial reaction to John; how he had come to depend on John; trusted him; felt accepted for the first time ever; the uncommon attachment to John he had had for a while already; how he missed, definitely, that was the word, John, when he wasn’t around. There was no doubt about it. He was in love. Curious. 

He had been sure love was a trap that could easily be avoided with enough presence of mind. Apparently he had erred in which way the danger lay. Love undeniably was just as dangerous as he’d thought, because even being in the wrong didn’t bother him in the slightest. 

He was just as certain of John’s feelings. Everything John did for him, had done from the start was proof of his love. He had killed for him, when they’d just met; he took care of him; helped him with people. Yes, John had loved him from the start. That there was a physical aspect to it was new. And there decidedly was. No straight man needs to get smashed because they don’t fancy their flatmate.

Love. Sherlock liked repeating that word. Its true meaning was new to him.


	3. Chapter 3

By noon John had managed to force himself downstairs. He didn’t feel good. Not bit. He slumped by the kitchen table. Sherlock placed a mug of hot coffee in front of him. Oh no. Shit. Shit. Something really had happened last night. Sherlock serving him coffee. He hadn’t even known they had coffee.   
“Sorry, if I woke you up last night.”  
“Not at all. I wasn’t asleep.” Pause. “I was thinking.”  
That didn’t sound good. John sipped his coffee. A glass of water had also appeared. He drank it. It was refilled. Ominous.

When his brain would return to normal working order, he would need to do some thinking. Now, all he wanted…   
“If you’re able to crawl over to the sofa, you can watch that series or whatever you got. It’s already in the player.” Shit. That was what he had wanted. Sherlock was taking care of him. That was not the way it was supposed to be. Not in any way, no. Obediently he crawled over to the sofa and lay down.

As he watched the telly and napped, Sherlock sat reading calmly. There were no sudden outbursts on topics he had no idea about, no surprising lurches across the room, no manic surfing the net, nothing exploding in the kitchen. Unnerving as it was, John was able to forgive all of it, because there also was no staring at him. He was in no condition to be looked at, so he was grateful for that at least. 

The appearance of pizza in the late afternoon worried him deeply. He hadn’t been sure Sherlock even knew how to order food. But he chose to overlook that, too, since it arrived at the exact moment he started to crave for it. Everything would be alright, if he just got some rest and wouldn’t think…

By the evening John felt slightly better. He could mull things over tomorrow. Sherlock’s behaviour, the head incident... Probably nothing. He'd figure it out later.  
“Thanks for today, Sherlock. Quite a state I was in.”  
Sherlock raised his eyes from his book, nodded and continued reading.  
“Just don’t make a habit out of it. If this is the treatment I get every time I’m hungover, I’ll be an alcoholic in no time," John tried to joke. The audience wasn't impressed.  
“It isn’t.” Eyes stayed on the book. A page was turned. Everything stayed quiet.  
“Huh, I feel good enough to take a shower already. And brush my teeth. Ew.” No reaction. He left for the bathroom.

As the water flowed over him, his mind also started to clear. What had happened last night? He had rushed to the pub as if his life depended on it. What was he afraid of? His own feelings or Sherlock's? And what exactly did he feel? What Sherlock even could feel? John had never fancied another man. Okay, there were some confusing thoughts about a football player in his adolescence, but never anything more. He had always eyed only women, dreamed only about women, only had women. Even in Afghanistan he had never been tempted by a bunkmate. 

Not that there would've been anything wrong with it. No, if he were gay, he was positive he would've come to terms with it by now. There was nothing that would've held him back from admitting it to himself and others. So that wasn't it. Sure, he admired Sherlock, but he couldn’t be attracted to him.

That left the question of last night unanswered. Absent-mindedly he touched the top of his head, where it had brushed against Sherlock. It had to be Sherlock then. He must've just been surprised by the realisation that Sherlock had feelings for him. The way Sherlock had trembled at their touch could only mean one thing. It seemed impossible, yes, but didn't Sherlock always say that, if the only thing fitting all the facts was impossible, it nevertheless had to be correct. John sighed relieved. He could live with Sherlock's feelings, no problem. Yeah, maybe he needed to be careful not to send any mixed signals to torment the poor blighter, but other than that, nothing had changed. Brightened up he reached for the towel.

Sherlock would not have approved of John's reasoning. In fact, he didn't. John always showered in two and a half minutes. As Sherlock sat listening the water running for twenty minutes before finally being turned off, it was simple to deduce the faulty logic John was playing in his head, and also point the bits he would choose to ignore, because they didn't fit his neat little theory of not-gay. 

Not that Sherlock minded all that much. He himself needed to accustom and decide what this want for John included. John could use the time to make the necessary adjustments to his sexual identity.

John made sure to put on a t-shirt and jeans before skipping back downstairs. Now that the problem was solved he could even feel sympathy. Poor Sherlock, he would have to accept not getting his way for once. Overcome with sudden tenderness John patted Sherlock's head in passing. Nothing but a friendly gesture.   
"Tea?"  
"No thanks. Feeling better?"  
Sherlock was highly amused by John's change of mood - especially the reasons for it. The fellow had no clue. Technically of course there were plenty of clues. John just chose to ignore them.

"Much better, thanks. You provide a very good hangover treatment. How did you know exactly what I wanted and when?"  
"It's alcohol poisoning, John, not curing cancer. It wouldn't take a genius."  
"So you say. But I'm glad there was one around," John smiled. Jeez. Had the man really no idea how happy his smile was? Glad, to be sure. The powers of self-deception the human race possessed were boundless.


	4. Chapter 4

It was a month since the incident, as John called it. Or revelation, as Sherlock preferred. Since then John had brilliantly succeeded in turning a blind eye to several more. There was the time they had continued watching the Bond movies and Sherlock had sat next to him. Rather close. By mid-movie he had in some inexplicable way ended up lying with his head on John's lap and John stroking his face and hair. It was nothing, honestly. The chap had a crush on him. It would be forever unrequited. The least he could do, really. 

There were the taxi rides, where it suddenly had become the norm for their fingers to lace across the back seat. There was the way John brushed Sherlock's shoulders in passing as he went to the kitchen. There was the look of utter horror on John's face when Sherlock seemed to be trapped in that burning stockroom last week. How John could dismiss all of that with such complete self-assurance was nearly stretching the limits of Sherlock's understanding. But only nearly.

Sherlock himself had grown comfortable with their touches. He didn't tremble at all anymore as John's fingers touched his. There was only the heavenly tingle as warmth spread around him from where John's fingers had passed. He adored it. His senses awake for the first time, finally knowing what this insatiable yearn for skin on skin was all about. 

To include all variables in his conclusions, he had spent a few days about town stumbling into people, shaking their hands, and leaning on to them on the underground. He’d worn a sleeveless t-shirt to get as much skin-on-skin contact as possible. John had raised his eye-brows, but had said nothing about his unconventionally casual outfit. Molly broke some quite expensive equipment as he had brushed their arms together, and Lestrade had pulled his hand away quickly, when he had held his wrist. The results were conclusive: it was only John’s touch that had the desired effect. Others felt just as meaningless as before.

John had spent many sleepless nights since the incident. He wasn’t quite as clueless to what was happening as Sherlock thought. It was just easy to ignore it in the daylight. Harder alone in his bed. He imagined he could feel Sherlock moving about downstairs, his body tuned to sense even the slightest vibration Sherlock made. Sherlock wouldn’t approve of such fancies. He turned to his side. He was tense, too overwrought to relax into sleep.

John had come to accept that he was… what was he? Gay for Sherlock? Whatever that meant. He had also done his own experiments – looked up a bit of porn on the net, tried to see if any guy at the Yard had a nice behind. Nope. He certainly wasn’t interested (and hadn’t been able to determine what a good heiney on a man exactly was). It was only Sherlock. That lean back, the regular lines of his face, those full lips. The musician’s hands that surely would know how to handle any instrument. Right, that was quite enough now. He attempted to lie on his stomach. A tad uncomfortable under the circumstances.

He could ignore the attraction during the day time, because, for one, he didn’t know what he should do about it, and there were plenty of straightforward things to do; and, second, because he got to touch Sherlock. If he could just reach over now and Sherlock would be there, it would calm him. The thoughts would be gone. If he could just touch instead of thinking. He sighed and turned. Lying alone in the dark his mind wouldn’t be still. He was certain that Sherlock too felt something and wanted something, but what could Mr. 'Married-to-my-work-sentiment-is-a-disadvantage' want? It was impossible to guess his hopes, when he wasn’t sure about his own. 

That wasn’t completely honest. He knew what he wanted. He wanted Sherlock. Naked. In bed. With him. Now. It just spelled like a very bad idea. The worst ever. He turned to his back. Sherlock always seemed to find answers in the ceiling, maybe he would too.

It was now quiet downstairs. Sherlock could of course be lying on the sofa thinking. Still John could just nip down to get a glass of water; that might burn out the extra energy. He got up and pulled on his dressing gown over his pyjamas. It was dark and quiet in the living room as well as the kitchen. He didn’t turn on the lights. 

Sherlock had left his bedroom door ajar. He usually did as he was sure to be up before John on the occasions he actually slept at night. John could just take a look. See what Sherlock looked like sleeping, that busy mind at peace for once. Just a quick look to calm himself.

He slipped inside quietly. Okay, so Sherlock did sleep in the nude. The sheet covered him from the waist down. He lay on his side, the other arm spread out, the other tucked under his body. He looked peaceful, so serene. John knew he should turn away, that he really shouldn’t even be here. It was just too beautiful.

“John, it’s rude to stare,” Sherlock’s voice, perfectly alert, startled him.  
“I’m sorry, I...” Right, well done, I what? I was just sneaking up on you while you slept. You know, ‘cause I’m a big perv. Brilliant. A great explanation.   
“Come on over then,” Sherlock still didn’t open his eyes, but made room for John on the bed.  
“I…” John made another feeble attempt at speaking. Sherlock’s annoyed grunt told him to get a move on. He chucked off his gown and crept on the bed, under the sheet. 

He was still not relaxed. No. Even less as a matter of fact. Sherlock’s body only an inch away, his breath gently swaying the bed. Sherlock’s naked body to be precise. To think this would calm him was madness. Quite the opposite. He wanted to, he needed to… What the hell, he was here wasn’t he? What was there to lose anymore? He put his arm over Sherlock cautiously. Sherlock took hold of it and pulled him closer. Their bodies now aligned, his chest against Sherlock’s arm, his toes tickling Sherlock’s leg. The groin most definitely to be kept at a distance. His breath on Sherlock’s neck. That gorgeous neck so close to his lips. He was almost hurting now from the pressure between his legs.  
"Sherlock?" he whispered.  
"Hm?"  
"What is this?"  
Sherlock laughed quietly and turned to face him.  
"Love, John."  
He looked into John's eyes, brushed off a strand of hair from his forehead and leaned in to kiss him. 

Kissing Sherlock. His lips inexperienced, not sure what to do; John’s hungry, trying to contain themselves, careful. John’s hands on Sherlock’s face guiding the kiss, Sherlock’s hand uncertainly stroking the back of his neck. John’s hips still keeping a distance, not daring to buck up against Sherlock. 

Kissing Sherlock, so much more than he had ever imagined. They parted, panting. Stared into each other’s eyes.

“Christ, Sherlock, I want you so bad it hurts.”  
Sherlock smiled, happy, pleased with himself. They kissed again and Sherlock’s hand hesitant, clumsy, travelled lower, stroked his chest, squirmed under his pyjama top, fondled his abdomen, squeezed his nipple. John groaned with pleasure.   
“Sherlock, really, you don’t have to… I know you haven’t…” he was interrupted by his own moan as Sherlock kissed his neck.

“Shut up, John. Have you ever seen me do anything I don’t want to? Anything I haven’t planned in exact detail…?” hearing those words in Sherlock’s husky voice, breathless with passion made John shiver. He stroked Sherlock’s back and sides, thrilled by the muscles he felt under his touch. He grabbed Sherlock’s hair as hard as he dared as Sherlock kissed him. And Sherlock’s hand continued lower, lower. Sweet Jesus. Feeling Sherlock’s curious fingers on his cock almost made him lose it. 

Sherlock ripped his pyjama top open, kissed his chest, taking playful bites, hungry for him. The sheet long gone from between them, just their naked bodies against each other, John’s pyjama bottoms half way down. 

John had never had such an interested hand on his cock, a hand so intent on pleasuring him, on learning how to please him. He gasped for air, head dizzy, moaning Sherlock’s name. Those fingers studying him, fondling his balls, stroking the insides of his thighs. 

Finally the hand picked up on a steady rhythm, a rhythm it had deemed best. John couldn’t agree more. Yes, yes, that was the rhythm, that was the right pressure of grip around him. His eyes flew open, his hands fumbled for Sherlock’s head, for his mouth on John’s. Looking into those gorgeous blue eyes, John shouted his moan onto Sherlock’s lips as he came in wild trembles, clasping Sherlock’s hair desperately.


	5. Chapter 5

John pulled Sherlock close, leaned his forehead against Sherlock’s elbow catching his breath.  
“I wasn’t sure I’d know how to do it,” Sherlock admitted kissing his head.  
John, unable to speak just yet, laughed dryly. He let go his grip of Sherlock, rolled to his back.  
“You knew perfectly how to do it. You are fucking perfect in every way. Blows my mind,” he sighed happily.  
Sherlock grinned.  
“Quite a strain on me, to match that,” John smiled squinting at Sherlock.  
“No hurry, I’m not expecting anything tonight. I know you’re still struggling with your sexuality,” Sherlock said matter-of-factly.  
John chuckled.  
“The only thing I’m struggling with is how best use that sexuality for your pleasure.” Softly he caressed Sherlock’s chest.

He pulled up his pants and wiped the cum off himself and Sherlock with his pyjama top and threw it off the bed. Sherlock turned to lie on his back. He was nervous, but aroused, shuddering ever so slightly. John leaned over him, gently placed his hand on his chest.  
“Now, anytime you want me to stop or to slow down, just say the word, okay?”  
Sherlock nodded, all serious.  
“That means anything that feels uncomfortable or unpleasant to you, alright?”  
Another nod, grave eyes looking into John’s.  
“There are no rights or wrongs here, just what you like.”  
“Okay. Yes. I got that,” Sherlock agreed exasperated. He may be a virgin, but hardly one who’d be afraid of speaking his mind. 

John kissed him. This was familiar already; they knew how to do this. John slipped his tongue inside Sherlock’s mouth, tasted him longingly, caressed his face. Sherlock sighed with pleasure and relaxed. 

John kissed his face, the corners of his mouth, his cheek, the eyebrows. Gently he tugged Sherlock’s earlobe with his teeth. Sherlock quivered. He tasted Sherlock’s neck, licked the sweat of it. Delicious. His hands stroked Sherlock’s face and hair. Slowly his mouth slid lower. How he had dreamed of touching this body. 

Sherlock felt at ease. He let John’s touches wash over him like waves, taking each as they came. Without realising he had let his mind slip away, he wasn’t thinking anymore. It had been so easy to let go; he didn’t need it now for he trusted John completely. There were only John’s hands, his mouth on his body. He gasped for air as John sucked his nipple. Breathe. 

John’s mouth moved on. He wanted to taste all of Sherlock. He nibbled Sherlock’s abdomen, hardly daring to look lower. He’d caught a glimpse earlier of course, but now he pulled back to get a good look. Glorious. Sherlock was absolutely perfect everywhere. 

Suddenly shy John reached hesitantly for Sherlock’s cock. It was hard and ready for him. Sherlock shook as he took it in his hand. Carefully he stroked it. Sherlock moaned in delight. John couldn’t control himself any longer; he had to taste all of Sherlock. He licked that beautiful cock from bottom to the top, tasted the leak before taking it fully into his mouth. Sherlock’s back arched, a surprised whimper escaped his lips.

John reached for Sherlock’s hand with his, locking their fingers. Sherlock held on to him tightly. John’s other hand held on to Sherlock’s cock, helped him guide it in his mouth. It tasted so good. He had never thought giving head could be so enjoyable. He loved it. He teased the cock with his tongue, sucked on it. 

Sherlock’s moans were almost pained now, he was begging for release. John steadied his sucking, let the cock slide a little bit deeper in his mouth and felt a little nudge just before Sherlock came, pumping the load into his mouth groaning. He didn’t let go ‘til Sherlock was completely spent, swallowing the cum gladly.

John held on to Sherlock as he calmed down, kissed his face gently, stroked his hair.  
“You are gorgeous, you’re so beautiful it’s criminal,” he whispered soothingly.  
Sherlock kissed him still in a haze.  
“I love you, John.”  
“I love you, too, Sherlock.”  
“You put me at a disadvantage,” Sherlock reproached.  
John giggled.  
“I’ve done that for a while now, whether you’ve admitted it or not.”  
“I know.” Sherlock kissed him again. “And just to further prove how irrational this whole love-thing is, I’m happy about it. I’m ecstatically happy about having you as a disadvantage.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to finish this in a hurry as I knew I won't be writing for a week at least, and these two wouldn't leave me alone, if I left them hanging. :) Hope it ended well enough for all of you.


End file.
